


El Pessebre de Nadal

by alcyone (Alcyone301)



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyone301/pseuds/alcyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aboard <i>Surprise</i> in the Indian Ocean, the late afternoon/early evening of a Christmas Day. Stephen and Jack reminisce.</p><p>Beta: the heroic alltoseek</p><p>Please note: The music is listed in the end notes. For those that want to look, there are numbered dividers representing the music, e.g. ~•~•~•~*11~•~•~•~, with a corresponding number in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	El Pessebre de Nadal

Near the end of the first dog watch, Jack left the deck to his second lieutenant, with a strong sense of duty done and well done. It had been a day of celebration without excess and, barring the injuries - how he hoped none were serious - it was one of pleasure on all sides. The hours he and Stephen had spent playing for and with the hands on deck had merely sharpened his anticipation of an evening of music with the doctor. The music above was all very well, accompanying the men’s songs and even starting one or two dances, to the hands’ great delight; but it was a far cry from the great joy he found in playing a well-known sonata with Stephen, or the inarticulate but profound communication between them as they created impromptu variations, sometimes for hours at a time. 

The descending sun ahead cast a soft radiance through the skylight, illuminating the near edges of the table and the scattered sheets of music upon it. Jack looked without touching, having learned to his cost how much Stephen resented having his incomprehensible sorting interrupted. Evidently he had finished copying their second transcription of the Veracini sonata, one they had heard in Valletta and admired; gratified by their enthusiasm, the gambist, Captain Cunningham of HMS _Valiant_ , had kindly caused it to be copied for them. 

No Stephen, however, and Jack threw off his heavy dress coat, untied the stock and went to the quarter gallery to wash. Returning, he took up his desk, retired to the lockers and resumed his journal-like letter to Sophie. ‘It has been an uncommon fine Christmas Day here, lacking only my dearest Sophie and the children to make it complete; I pray you are all well and enjoying the same. The winds have been moderate at SSE all day, hardly a sail needing to be touched, which as you know is practically a holiday for the men in itself. In spite of a good deal of merriment, they have all behaved very well. I held back the muffler and stockings you sent to Malta and so Stephen and I had a festive evening before Christmas. He sends his love and hearty thanks for the gifts.’ 

Jack paused, weighing the merits of telling his gentle wife about the asperity with which his friend had condemned the extra rum ration, which Jack had to admit in his own mind may have contributed to the unexpected number of injuries, and the doctor’s consequent absence from much of the afternoon watch and an interrupted Christmas dinner. He looked out the stern windows, happily gazing at the quiet, straight wake; he considered how to recount the morning service without gross arrogance, imagining Sophie’s surprise. Stephen’s misgivings had been excessive, surely. 

Stephen strode in, and with a little self-conscious start Jack cried, ‘Why Stephen, there you are. I was just thinking of sending Killick to find you.’ 

‘I was in the sick berth, where else should I be?’ 

‘How is Ainsbridge?’ 

‘He will do well, Deo volente. The fracture was difficult to reduce and just now he was thrashing a bit, but fifteen drops of the blessed laudanum put a stop to that. Franklin may lose the great toe but the foot will heal, and McWhinney too will do well, though his wife may not be pleased with the inevitable scarring. For the rest, there are the usual drunken stupours and plethories, and Mr Oldman of course. Yet there is a vast amount of this festive spirit even there. The English can be counted upon to be sentimental under the strangest circumstances.’ 

‘Why, do not you,’ Jack considered rapidly: Irish? Spanish? Papist? and settled on, ‘your people celebrate Christmas?’ 

‘Surely we do, whichever people you refer to,’ he replied, with an affectionate smile, ‘but I don't remember quite so much jollity. Nor do we make a practice of celebrating our Saviour’s birth by encouraging the immoderate consumption of rum, breaking children’s arms and injuring valuable seaman.’ His discarded coat and neck cloth marked his progress to the quarter gallery.

Jack locked the desk and put it aside. He was tuning his violin when Stephen returned, somewhat cleaner if not quite up to Jack’s standard and ready for an evening’s music. 

‘It's surprising how very out of tune this is, considering we were playing so recently. Do you think it is the cooling, after being in the sunshine?’ 

Picking up the cello, Stephen sat in his usual chair and began tuning it, offering ‘Yes, and perhaps also the humidity, even outright splashes?’

‘Surely not on such a calm day.’

After a pause, Jack asked, ‘How do you celebrate Christmas? Today, I mean? Did you have a special service in the maintop? Forgive me, Stephen, if my curiosity is unwelcome.’

Stephen waved off Jack's apology, plucked a few notes, nudged the pegs. ‘I marvel at the beautiful world around me, appreciate the company of those I live with, enjoy the music, and of course attempt to mend the damage done by the more boisterous of our friends; and if I am so fortunate I thank God I have been able to help repair what they have broken.’

‘And at home?’ 

‘That would depend on which home you mean, indeed which country.’

‘Well, Ireland.’

Stephen picked up his bow, looked to Jack, with a minute questioning tilt of his head, Jack’s almost undetectable nod inviting him to carry on, and so began a Geminiani cello sonata, Jack improvising what might be called a tenor continuo.

~•~•~•~*1~•~•~•~

‘That, if you like, is Irish music.’

‘Surely not’, said Jack, astonished. 

‘Certainly it is – after a fashion. It was written in Dublin, during one of Geminiani’s sojourns there. I made my own copy directly from his manuscript. But you are correct, of course – it is Italian music. He was Corelli’s pupil.’ 

‘It don’t sound very Corellian.’ 

‘As you say. Corelli was generally adulated, his pupil thought his influence had become excessive, so much so that innovation was constrained. Geminiani deliberately tried to avoid that constraint, with some success. He was undoubtedly a lesser composer, but his ideas were good, and very original. We might look for some of his violin sonatas – they are said to be quite remarkably challenging.’ He adjusted the tuning. ‘May I play you some real Irish music, now?’ 

~•~•~•~*2~•~•~•~

‘That’s never Irish.’

‘It is, though. It is the _Carúl Loch Garman_.’

‘But that’s the Wexford Carol, is it not? We sang that at home.’ And Jack sang, Stephen listening to his rich, powerful bass with obvious pleasure. 

‘Good people all, this Christmas time,  
Consider well and bear in mind  
What our good God for us has done  
In sending his beloved son  
With Mary holy we should pray,  
To God with love this Christmas Day  
In Bethlehem upon that morn,  
There was a blessed Messiah born.’

‘You are to observe that Wexford lies upon Loch Garman, Jack. With your indulgence,’ he sang, in his accurate but unlovely voice, 

‘Ó, tagaig' uile is adhraigí  
An leanbh cneasta sa chró 'na luí  
Is cuimhnígí ar ghrá an Rí  
A thug dár saoradh anocht an Naí.  
'S a Mhuire Mháthair i bParrthas Dé,  
Ar chlann bhocht Éabha guigh 'nois go caomh,  
Is doras an chró ná dún go deo  
Go n-adhram' feasta Mac Mhuire Ógh.'

 

‘it is a translation of the English text, I believe?’ Jack asked. 

‘It is not, though its theme is the child born in a stable, as is that of its English descendent. Both the text and the melody are mediaeval if not earlier, and uncontestably Irish in origin. I learned it so long ago it seems I have always known it.’ 

 

‘You shall tell me all about it, dear Stephen, but first let us _consider well and bear in mind_ what is due to us this day.’ Raising his voice, Jack hailed Killick. 

‘What now,’ the steward grumbled, appearing rather too quickly. 

‘Bring a couple of bottles of the Priorato, Killick, and then find something to do more useful than eavesdropping.’

Not condescending to notice the charge, he said reproachfully, ‘Which there’s naught but two bottles left, and when that’s gone what ever will you serve distinguished guests?’ 

‘Then fetch them, Killick.’ As the steward picked up Jack’s coat with a near-subvocal snarl and turned to go, Jack added, ‘The doctor and I are quite distinguished enough.’

~•~•~•~

 

‘Now, how did you come to learn the Wexford Carol? You were born in Catalonia, I believe?‘ he added, with some misgivings. In spite of their long intimacy, Stephen rarely spoke of his past with much comfort or indeed candour.

‘I was brought to Ireland and fostered near Aghamore, when I was quite young, one or two years old,’ Stephen replied. 

Jack was taken aback, and in his generous heart quite prepared to be outraged on his friend’s behalf, so cruelly banished by the families of both his parents; he conceived that such brutal rejection, at so tender an age, could only be because of his bastardy; but none of this could be said, and so he interjected, cautiously, ‘I thought you lived in Dublin?’

‘I did, many years later, and I must have lived near there, with one cousin or another, when I was first brought from Spain. It cannot have been for long, and I don’t remember much about it. How much do you remember of the world when you were an infant, brother?’

Jack looked down, uncomfortably aware of how very much his childhood differed from his friend’s; thumbing the strings of the violin in his lap, he said, quietly, ‘I just remember a general feeling of being … safe? Where I should be? While my mother was alive, anyway. I always had the same home, you see. 

‘How I hope that has not wounded him,’ he thought. 

‘Given the irregularity of my birth,’ Stephen responded, noncommittally, ‘I was fortunate to be fostered with a family that had been attached to my paternal grandmother Fitzgerald’s family for generations. Bridie Coolan, the dear woman, took me in and I lived with her for five years or so. It was a home, Jack.’

Killick walked in without knocking, carrying Jack’s brushed and folded coat and a tray with two bottles and two glasses, and wearing a ferocious scowl. He put the coat into a side locker and poured the first bottle into a decanter with tender care, however; Jack dismissed him with a nod. Picking up the violin, he proposed a Tartini sonata.

~•~•~•~*3~•~•~•~

Jack rose and poured the wine. He resumed, as if they had been conversing, instead of playing the Tartini for the last ten minutes. ‘Was you not lonely? Scared?’

‘I don't think so. The first I remember of it – thank you, Jack - was being excited at being sat on a great horse’s back, for so long a ride, before a man in very splendid clothing, and then waking in the rich vivid homely warm teachín with cows in the byre and pigs and chickens walking in and out. I don't remember being at all upset. The animals, the pigs especially, seemed to me to be a natural part of the family, and I no more related to Bridie and her husband than they, nor less. 

‘Over time other children came and went, not quite as decisively as the stock; Bridie had two babies of her own. As I grew older I ran wild, exploring: open land, green and gently hilly, lochs, bogs, all alive with birds, small mammals, the occasional wandering cow or sheep. It was rural and simple and all a small child could desire.

~•~•~•~*4~•~•~•~

'Bridie sang that.’

Jack, rather moved and beginning to understand that Stephen’s was not a bleak childhood after all, asked somewhat at random, ‘Is that a Christmas carol?’

‘Oh no.’

‘Then how did you celebrate Christmas?’ 

Stephen laughed. ‘We ate! Other than that it was not much different from other days. We sang a bit more, people from beyond the hill might visit, and we would do our observances as for a Sunday – prayers and so on. The priest might come or we might pack up and go across the hill to where he was at doing a service – ‘

‘The priest came to you?’

‘You are to understand, Jack, that the Catholic religion was proscribed; we were still a decade and more away from Catholic emancipation, and although the penal laws were rarely strictly enforced - we were no longer likely to lose our lives for the way in which we spoke with God, - it was still a hidden practice. I suppose no one cared to challenge the way things had been done time out of mind.’

Thoughtfully, he added, ‘Catholics were still not permitted to attend college when I went to Trinity in my youth. I was fortunate in being nominated and no doubt supported by the Fitzgeralds …

~•~•~•~*5~•~•~•~

‘One year we had the Christmas service outside, in a quiet dell on common land. We were joined, at the Credo, by a small flock of semi-wild sheep. The priest took no notice, but I was delighted, and wondered if they would stay for the Agnus Dei.

‘The service itself was little different from any Sunday of the year. Most of our religious observations were daily prayers, songs and Bible readings or stories. No formal religious instruction, indeed none of any kind, until I went to Catalunya.’ Again he paused.

‘The excitement of Christmas was at the table. We feasted all day, in what you would consider a modest way but to us, the utmost luxury. Bridie would hoard things through the autumn, hidden apples, nuts, preserves, a half ham from the pig we slaughtered in November. One year … ‘

‘Wait, ham? From one of your pet pigs? A family member?’ Jack cried, belatedly wondering if the doctor would take his levity amiss.

‘Why, yes. It never occurred to me to regret it. It was just the way of things: life, death, and food. And music, I suppose. As it should be, as I understood life, all the different parts fitting together, in harmony. Including your wit, my dear.

‘The pig was always welcome inside, while he lived, and by mid-December much of the livestock had more or less moved in with us. It was an ancient stone house, not very big, with a common wall between byre and the living quarters. We shared space with the animals. The boundary between them and us was blurred, at least to my baby mind.’ He smiled, a very sweet smile. ‘Their warmth. In the _teachín_ it was warm by the hearth, we had blankets, we huddled, the dogs slept with us sometimes. But in the byre it was always warm, as from an invisible, diffuse hearth, made of the heat from the very animals. When it grew crowded by the family hearth, I would sometimes dash out the door and around to the byre, trying to run between the raindrops.

~•~•~•~*6~•~•~•~

‘That is an Irish Christmas carol, if you like, a baby’s song, a lullaby even.’

‘About birds, I collect?’

‘Birds coming to greet the new-born Saviour, yes.’

Jack played a few trilling runs. ‘And so you became a naturalist. I’m not at all surprised, with such songs and such siblings.’

Stephen snorted, rather unsuccessfully echoing Jack’s trills on the cello; they played on for a few minutes, Stephen offering a bird’s song, Jack improvising upon it.

~•~•~•~

‘One year the priest brought some little dark harsh chunks that Bridie put into warm milk with sugar. It made such a drink! Stimulating, altogether heavenly. It was my first taste of chocolate.‘

‘Why Stephen, I'm am amazed. I don’t remember tasting chocolate until I was nine or ten, and had some at Queeney's house, Damplow, you know.’ 

‘Did you not have chocolate at home?’ asked Stephen surprised; surely such a luxury was a staple of the English gentry. 

‘No … well, there might have been some, for the adults. I wouldn’t necessarily know. I was the only child there, much of the time, and didn’t really interact much with the adults, once my mother was gone. It was a big house …

~•~•~•~*7~•~•~•~

‘Yuletide at Woolcombe was very different, when my mother was alive. It was full of people all rushing about, preparing things, guests and so on. Happy noise, and a great deal of singing. Balls, with a great many guests, the music carrying to the nursery, not just at Christmas, of course. I can remember being carried in to say good night to Mama and Papa and bid everyone a happy Christmas, as a very young child – It was so bright, humming with so many people talking, like a beehive.‘ 

Stephen bowed a soft droning sound upon the cello. Jack continued, thus accompanied for a few moments.

‘We went to church in the village as a family, guests, servants and all, during Yuletide, though we seldom filled the family pews any other time of year. One year I went around the village with Queeney and her sisters, as waits, singing carols.’

He offered the first notes of ‘Here We Come a-Wassailing’, Stephen joining in immediately.

~•~•~•~*8~•~•~•~

‘I sang in the choir from quite young, a treble of course, and the rector was an accomplished musician – he gave me keyboard lessons, but considered me too young for the violin, though I was allowed to play with a battered old violin at home. Some of my best memories are there, you know, singing my heart out. I longed to do solos in church, showing away I suppose, but he thought I was too young for that, too.’ Then, quietly, ‘I never sang solo until I was nine years old, when there wasn’t much music at home any more, and not much Christmas, neither, to tell the truth.

~•~•~•~*9~•~•~•~

‘I never sat to a Christmas dinner in my mother’s time, neither – too young – but the nursery always got to share in everything, including the wines and punches, well-diluted of course. There were always wonderful things being made in the kitchen, starting long before Christmas itself. One of the earliest was the plum pudding, enormous and always delicious. Once when I was small – five maybe? – I was in the kitchen for the making of the plum pudding. My nurse took part, in fact it seemed that everyone did, stirring the batter, throwing in the dried fruits and lemon peel and nuts and so on. The kitchen maid gave me a bit of everything that went in – at least so I believed – and cook scolded her for it. She is still there, cook and kitchen maid both now, in a much reduced household, and she says I started asking when it would be ready before it was set to boil, and every day for the next three weeks. I’m sure she exaggerates.’ He paused, reflecting; then noting his friend’s skeptical smile, added, ‘Perhaps not.

‘Every day there were wonderful biscuits and tarts being made, along with the usual meals, which of course became more lavish as more guests came to stay. It was all very exciting.

‘When I was a bit older, seven or eight maybe, I would go with the people gathering mistletoe, again well before the day – because it had to dry, of course. You would have loved it, Stephen. The men usually spotted it, high up in oak trees, just twiggy clusters here and there. There were only two ways to collect it – either knocking it down, which took a very long pole and often damaged the berries, or sending one of the village children up the tree for it. I was quite tall and strong for my age and very thin – Stephen snorted in disbelief – ‘and even then I loved going aloft. It feels so good to climb, the world opens out before you – at sea, I mean, though you could see quite a long way through wood, too, from up high, no leaves of course. Sometimes just the children would go out, and that was great fun, although one year a girl fell and broke her ankle, and I got thrashed for it.’

Jack sang the first verse of the Coventry Carol, softly, then played two more, a string duet.

~•~•~•~*10~•~•~•~

‘Injustice and tyranny at Woolcombe, was it?’

Jack laughed. ‘It was part of my life. I could do all manner of mischief and get away with it, but if something drew my father’s attention and I could possibly be to blame I would be thrashed, the theory being, I suppose, that if I were guilty I would have atoned, and if innocent I would have had a cautionary lesson.’

‘I have often wondered how you can maintain your sweet sanguine nature in such a service as the Royal Navy. I see you were trained early to accept injustice,’ said Stephen, with a smile. 

'The men collected holly, too, and the house steadily filled with greenery and ribbons and bunches of mistletoe, smelling ... indescribable, really, but that’s what Christmas smelled like to me.

~•~•~•~*11~•~•~•~

‘The big event was of course the grand Christmas dinner. When you was showing me that goose earlier – the unfortunate one – could he be et, do you think?’

'The _Anser indicus._ Quite probably edible, but so far from his normal breeding grounds we cannot expect to find another. That is why we call him an accidental.’

‘That’s an unfortunate answer indeed,’ said Jack, with a great peal of laughter at his own wit. Two bulwarks over, the sour look on Killick’s face softened into an indulgent smile. 

‘Well,’ continued Jack, ‘I was thinking about those dinners. There was usually a magnificent goose, or two or even three if there were a lot of guests, not to mention all manner of secondary dishes – fish, sometimes, ducks stuffed with bread pudding and orange peel, lamb, all sorts of kickshaws. One year the geese didn’t thrive so there was an enormous beef roast, along with a couple of insufficient but delectable geese. 

‘We kept the geese ourselves, you know, through the autumn, not for the rest of the year, as far as I remember. I rather liked them, until one took exception to my approaching her. I was rescued, however, horribly bruised.’ He paused. ‘I was disappointed to find she was not the one I helped reduce to scraps at the table that year.’ He played a simple, lilting tune. 

~•~•~•~*12~•~•~•~

‘That’s one for you, Stephen.’ It’s called ‘The Birds’, an old Yuletide favourite.’ 

‘I thank you, my dear. It’s new to me, and what’s more, it shows a true spirit of forgiveness, if some years delayed.’ 

‘And of course there were the mince pies, the fruit tarts, custards, above all the plum pudding.’ Putting the violin down, Jack stood and stretched, looking out the stern window for a few moments. With a smile divided between irony and amusement, he turned back to Stephen, now refilling their glasses. ‘I never once got anything in my plum pudding – never a coin, never a bean nor a thimble. I thought, the last Christmas before I went to sea, that I might find the anchor in my pudding, but in fact I did not.’

‘Perhaps fate was saving all your luck for a greater cause?’ 

‘Perhaps so.’ Jack nodded his thanks for the wine. He picked up the violin again, plucking a few notes idly, too few to tell what he was thinking, then sighed. ‘The year after my mother died I was sent away to my widowed great-aunt’s house in London, in Russell Square, for the winter. I’m sorry to say I found it quite pleasant.’

‘Why sorry, Jack?’

Jack shifted uncomfortably. ‘There was all the crepe at home, you know, the drapes always half-closed, even the clocks muffled, and then my own clothes – I was barely breeched and I had to wear very plain black clothes, no frills or bright buttons or anything, black on my shirtsleeves at home, black on my hatband. I was very sad indeed, but the clothes were .. oppressive. I had the idea that if I let the gloom lift in any way I would be demonstrating a disgraceful lack of sorrow. And then to be sent to the home of a widow -! I was sadly discouraged. 

‘My great-aunt Lettice was a very proper woman, no doubt, quiet and even grave, but spirited with it, and kind. She wore mourning as well – my mother was her niece – but as Christmas approached she wore pins on her dresses, sometimes a spring of holly. And she encouraged me to put aside the black handkerchief, and the gloves I was to wear at church, for instance. She very quietly made those weeks …. not so bad. She let me play with her husband’s violin, when at home I was not allowed to touch the good instruments. She encouraged improvisation, and helped me understand music in a way I had not yet discovered, and when she sent me home, she sent the violin as well.’ 

‘She took me to see a performance of _Ascanio in Alba_ , the first Mozart I ever saw performed, a very lavish staging in some palace or other. It felt strange to be so happy.

~•~•~•~*13~•~•~•~

‘She had invited my uncle Fisher – my mother’s brother – to stay over Christmas, but he declined with thanks. He called on us a few times, a very grave, unhappy man, and somewhat awkward with me. On one of the last visits he came upon me playing with my great-uncle’s violin, and we became fast friends at once. He played very well indeed, while I watched him scarcely daring to blink, lest I miss anything. It was a shame that my time to return to Woolcombe was so close. However I visited him when we were in London, in later years. I was very fond of him.’

‘Everything had changed when my mother died, of course, and it hit home the following year. I spent most of Christmas at Damplow, then and after, whenever I could. They were always most kind and welcoming. I should have stayed home more, perhaps, but I think my father was glad to let me go. He was a morose, silence presence, uncomfortable to be around. He had once been loud and cheerful, at least when he visited the nursery. Not that he did so often. He was never much involved with me before I was breeched, and even less so after my mother died, even if he happened to be home. He seemed to be on campaign somewhere fairly often. Of course the staff was there.’ He plucked a few notes of “Angels We Have Heard on High”. ‘It didn’t much affect our celebrations if he was gone, really,’ he said, sadly.

~•~•~•~*14~•~•~•~

‘Such a lovely melody,' Jack continued. 'Quite uncommon. It is English, is it not?’ he asked, doubtfully.

‘It is not, Jack. I regret to say it’s French, although from the best part of France, close to the Pyrenean border, where they still speak an Occitan tongue, related to Catalan. Perhaps we could consider it my native music, rather than yours.’

Jack nodded. ‘Fair enough.

‘My first Christmas at sea, when I was twelve, was a revelation. You’ve seen it yourself, many a time. Unless you’re on an unhappy ship, or one with a heartless pragmatic dog of a captain, you get a very cheerful haphazard blend of a great many cultures – like our music, you know. 

‘In fact, the whole experience of life at sea was liberating, right from the start. I was treated with a rough kind of respect, which I could lose or maintain on my own merits. The food was plentiful, I had companions interested in the same things, learning the same things as I was. All that to one side, just being on the ocean gave me a feeling like that of my earliest memories, of being where I belonged. 

‘But, Stephen,' he said, with sudden realisation, you must have gone to sea even younger than I did. Did it not strike you as exciting, enticing, even ... wondrous?’

‘I don’t remember the voyage to Ireland at all. I was less than a year old. The first sea voyage I remember came when I was seven and I am sorry to say, Jack, that I was almost completely unaware of the working of the ship. I cannot even tell you what the ship was, except that it had masts.’

Jack nodded, not much surprised. ‘You was going to Spain, then? It was probably a barque.’

‘I had been sent for by my mother’s family. My return to Catalunya was divided between missing home and exuberance. The vistas, the oceanic life, above all the birds!' He frowned. ‘That is not a pun, Jack. Pray do not snicker so, it does not suit your dignity as a captain and a gentleman.’ 

Jack replied with a cheerful brief swirl of notes on his fiddle.

‘It turned out to be a joyous passage. I travelled with a Spanish monk, who was kind, answering those of my questions he could, and teaching me quite a lot of Spanish, as well as improving the little Latin I had picked up in Aghamore. It became our custom for him to come on deck for informal lessons, so that I would not miss anything.

‘When we landed in Barcelona – it was summer, scorchingly hot – I was turned over to cousins living in the city. It was a series of abrupt discoveries. For instance,’ he said, with a wry look, ‘I discovered that the Spanish I was so proud of was resented, being the language of Catalunya’s centuries-long oppressors, and so I was electively mute while decisions were being made. I was provided with clothes, taken here and there and introduced – or rather shown - to people who I assumed were also relatives. Nobody was unkind, but I felt I was a piece of baggage and an inconvenient one at that. I was taken to a church once, huge and beautiful, but all hard edges, cold stone and only the familiar Latin chant to tell me that I was attending a religious service. The first legal, sanctioned service of my life, barring baptism, and I was oblivious. Nor did I recognize the massive church itself as holy, with its richly robed celebrants, so unlike the _teachín_ and our humble priest. I must have thought it as incidental to the service as the dell in which we had that Christmas service, or indeed any of the dozens of other such places near Aghamore.

‘We were probably in Barcelona only a few days, but I can’t tell. It was so huge, so crowded, so hot, so very confusing. And then we set off for Montserrat, two or perhaps three days’ travel on horseback into the mountains. Mountains, Jack! Treed, rocky, magnificent. I was enthralled with the land and utterly charmed by the mule that carried me. I called her Seamair, Clover, to general indifference, alas.’ 

Jack, also charmed, put the violin aside.

‘We must have stopped frequently, because we had to eat and rest, and I was after all only a small seven-year-old, but I have little memory of that. Yet by the time we reached Montserrat I was beginning to understand the speech of our party.

~•~•~•~*15~•~•~•~

'I was at the monastery for perhaps a few weeks, learning Catalan and improving my Latin, until a cousin and some people from Requesens came to fetch me. You remember Requesens, do you not?'

‘Of course,’ laughed Jack. ‘I could scarcely forget the bath, if I remembered nothing else. I have never been so happy to be clean in my life.’

‘Requesens was where my grandparents stayed much of the year, alternating with our house in Lleida. They were kind but they were old and much damaged by life. They no doubt did their best, seeing to my welfare, my education, dining with me often, inquiring after my progress and so on. They never seemed able to abandon their habitual reserve, nor the grief they would naturally associate with my birth.’

Jack asked, ‘They were not affectionate, then?’

‘Not other than self-consciously, no, nor did they welcome affection from me. Do you remember Mariona at the castle? She was there at that time, younger of course but kind and warm and I suppose she became a sort of deputy for Bridie, in my mind. You will perceive the similarity to your experience at the same age, no doubt,’ he said, gazing into Jack’s face, recognising his silent acknowledgement.

‘At the castle my life assumed a regularity, between lessons, history, language, the catechism, of which I knew more than I would have guessed, comportment, and so on. And riding lessons.’

Jack rose and refilled their glasses. Handing one to Stephen, he said, ‘A lot for a seven-year-old to deal with?’

‘Not so bad. I was delighted with the lessons, eager to learn whatever I was offered. I loved the outdoor lessons – my own pony, Jack, Oriol! - although sure the regular schedule was a bit constraining. I had time to explore, much less than I was used to, but in such a splendid place! Mountains, forest, the castle itself, a wealth of animal life. The animals and the birds were strange, and even more so, the flora, yet it still resembled the world I knew. I could have spent a year exploring and nothing else, and at the end of it I would not have done more than scratch the surface.

‘I suppose I was a bit heartless to not miss Ireland and Bridie more. I was happy, even though everything seemed disjointed to me – in compartments. These people are family, those servants. No animals in the house, few people outside. This the time and place for lessons, that to take tea or chocolate with my grandmother, the other for worship.

‘The church was not a mile away, a small little ancient stone building, but just as removed from what I perceived as sacred as the church in Barcelona. It was respected by my family, so I gave it respect, no more. I felt more comfort, more ease in the stable than in my own room. I had a stronger sense of the sacred watching ants labour, birds fly, rain approaching along the mountainside, than I did in the church. I don’t remember being much concerned about it, but it was puzzling.

~•~•~•~*15~•~•~•~

‘In Montserrat I could recognise that that sense of the sacred, that spirituality, directly, in the faces of some of the monks. They had a secret I did not, yet in my earliest recollections I had felt something like that in the natural world, what I would call awe were it not so intimate. Reverence, I suppose.

‘One morning in Lleida, that first year, I heard a cock crow, and responded as we do in Ireland - _Mac na h’Oighe slan_ , hail to the Virgin’s Son – and was reproved, first for the Irish, and then for what I suppose was perceived as the impropriety of a prayer being said in open air, as if it were part of normal speech.’ He shook his head, the bewilderment at that conundrum still plain to see.

‘On another occasion, I noticed in one of the windows of the _Seu Nova_ that the usual representation of the Paraclete was anatomically incorrect – his legs were far too long, and the feet were clearly zygodactyl, not anisodactyl as is the case with every dove the good God ever made. I pointed this out, and was hushed at once by my scandalised grandmother, who bade me never say such a thing again. So apparently it was also improper to bring the truth of the world to the altar.’

Stephen put the cello down and moved to the lockers, holding out his hand, wordlessly asking Jack for his violin; receiving it, he sat down and quickly tweaked the pegs, cocking his head at the strings.

‘I lived at Requesens for much of the next eight years, there and at Lleida, at my godfather’s home in Ullastret, and at Montserrat. I could never see too much of any of those places. It was good.

~•~•~•~*16~•~•~•~

‘I beg your pardon, Jack: you wanted to hear about Christmas.’ He handed the violin back with a nod of thanks and returned to the chair, taking up the cello again.

‘I dare say you don’t recall much of Lleida? You were quite ill when you were there.’

‘Not much, I must admit. But I remember the colonnades and the courtyard with all the orange trees and a lot of blue tile.’

‘You remember the important parts, then,’ said Stephen, amused.

‘We removed to Lleida late in autumn, to a new set of discoveries for me. The horses were stabled outside the wall, so I had only birds to commune with, and a few cats sharing our quarters. The occasional mouse, when the cats were lazy. The food was different, and there were so many people. I began to attend lessons at the Monastir de Santa Maria de Vallbona, the monastery, having apparently exhausted my tutor in the north. Most evenings I could hear singing, often complex polychoral music, fascinating. Sunday worship was yet stranger than at Requesens, not at all unpleasant, just lacking the living spirit of the music in the street. It was glorious in its way, in the newly-consecrated _Seu Nova_ , but having little or no connection with what I perceived as devotion. The services were lavish, the Latin was familiar, and yet it was the most foreign part of my experience. On the other hand the dancing was a delight.’

‘Oh,’ Jack laughed, ‘how you startled me, back when you was acting surgeon on the dear old _Sophie_ , and you casually mentioned dancing with some fellows after church. So the children dance, too?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

Stephen leaned into his cello and began a _sardana_. Jack joined in, with an uncanny memory for what Stephen had played all those years ago.

~•~•~•~*17~•~•~•~

The sentry’s knock on the door, and Lampson rushed in, clumsily pulled off his hat, and piped ‘Mr Pullings’ compliments, sir, and he believes we might set more sail, and would welcome your opinion.’

‘Thank you, Mr Lampson. Tell Mr Pullings I will be up directly.’

Heaving himself up with a sigh, Jack pulled his coat from its locker. ‘Don’t lose your tale, brother. I shall be back shortly.‘

~•~•~•~

Jack returned to an unfamiliar, languid melody, being played upon his violin. Removing his coat once more, he emptied the decanter into his glass, opened and decanted the second bottle, and returned to his cushioned seat by the stern windows.

~•~•~•~*18~•~•~•~

Stephen completed the song, handing the violin back with a mildly apologetic look. Placidly, he continued, ‘As Yuletide approached, the evening music, and that I heard in the Lleida streets, had more to do with the approaching Nativity. Or perhaps I became able to understand the words at about that time. That one you just heard was about the Nativity, as is this one,' and he played another perfectly unfamiliar song, with a strange and complex tempo, and quite remarkably joyous.

~•~•~•~*19~•~•~•~

‘We have finally arrived at Christmas, my poor patient Jack.

‘Visitors came and went at the great house in Lleida, and I was introduced often. A surprising number of them seemed to be relatives, in a distant sort of way. Many of them I came to know well when I was older, but at the time my understanding of Catalan was still imperfect and my head full of the day’s lessons and discoveries. It was not until after the _Dia dels Reis Mags_ that I realised the visiting was a festive behaviour. The house was normally rather quiet, particularly in the enclosed gardens, of course.

'For me the most memorable event was when the entire household went to church on Christmas Eve. I was accustomed to attending mass at _La Seu Nova_ with my grandparents, or with one of the house-servants. This was quite different. 

'In the first place, we went to _La Seu Vella_ , the old cathedral, which is magnificent. It almost defies description – it is set at the highest point of Lleida, with an enormous, extraordinarily beautiful cloister and an imposing tower. Stonework tracery, painted walls, sculpture in the capitals, high, high vaulted ceiling, windows of marble, thin enough to admit light. Breathtaking.

‘There’s a chapel, the _Capella de l'Epifania_ , donated in the 14th century by the family from Requesens. There is a ceiling boss portraying one of my ancestors kneeling before the bishop; I was shown this when we returned on _El Dia dels Reis Mags_ , Epiphany. Will you visit it with me, one day?'

‘Certainly, with the greatest pleasure. However unless we can sail to the foot of the entrance that will have to wait until peace breaks out.’

‘Reach me the violin one more time, will you now?’ With that, Stephen played a lovely, strange melody.

~•~•~•~*20~•~•~•~

‘That is a poor approximation of part of the Song of the Sybil, an ancient prophecy, sung in this region for more than a thousand years. The first time I heard it was early that Christmas eve, the traditional time for its performance. I was transfixed. I think I scarcely breathed throughout, twenty minutes or so of the strangest and most compelling music I had heard to that point in my life. And I was already in a state of awe before I heard a note.’

‘Because of the cathedral, I take it?

‘Why no,’ Stephen replied, ‘because of _El Pessebre de Nadal_ , the crèche.

‘I must tell you, Jack, that after that Christmas eve I never again felt that strange detached indifference to church, or at least not to the church itself, nor the service. Having always seen the sacred in the secular, I discovered the secular within the sacred, and that led me to the unity of all things, Bridie’s gentle devotion and the bishop’s grandeur, the great cavalry horses decked in silver and the drab little wrens in the willows, pools in the peat bog and the ocean. I continued to prefer the outdoors, so to speak, but I began to feel at home under the roof of my family’s house as well as God’s.

‘Just inside the entry, within the antechamber of the great cathedral, under the distant vaulted ceiling, there was a crèche against the south wall, a living Nativity scene: the _sagrada família_ , a man and a woman, dressed simply as Joseph and Mary, adoring the Child in the manger. They were striking enough, but even more so were the animals – in a church!’ he said, shaking his head in remembered astonishment. ‘Three sheep and a donkey, going about their motions in a sea of straw, comfortable and calm, and all my understanding was turned on its head.

‘I was eventually pulled away, into the nave, and guided into a pew. There was a procession, then, to the strangest introit, like a solemn march, a boy all dressed in white entered from the narthex, a sword in his hand and flanked by two choristers carrying tall candles, and approached the altar.’

~•~•~•~*20~•~•~•~

‘He turned and sang the prophecy, solo and _a capella_ , with brief, muted choral responses. It’s uncanny, eerie, thrilling. You must hear it sung, some day. I cannot possibly do more than hint at it.’

~•~•~•~*X~•~•~•~

Jack, who had been listening intently, murmured, ‘It sounds rather like Gregorian chant, with a touch of Moorish perhaps?’

‘What an ear you have, brother.’

‘There was to be a midnight mass, and so after _el Cant de la Sibil•la_ was over everyone milled about, looked into the chapels and so on. I went back to the Pessebre, of course, and yet another preconception fell away, when I discovered bread, cheese, preserves and water being offered on the north side of the antechamber, and a crowd of people there.

‘After the mass started I slipped out again – after all, I could not take part in the Eucharist, so I reasoned, very much ad hoc, that I was not obliged to attend. Joseph and Mary had left the crèche, no doubt attending mass, taking their baby with them.’

‘It was a real baby?’

‘It was. I wondered even then how they kept him quiet.’

‘Speaking from experience, I would imagine a little bit of brandy would help. Or perhaps he was a miraculous baby.’

Laughing, Jack proposed a brief passage from their familiar _Die Hirten an der Krippe _.__

~•~•~•~*21~•~•~•~

‘It seemed perfectly sensible to climb into the crèche and look at the animals. The sheep were strangely clean, quite tame, as was the donkey. His mane was amazing, like a brush, but surprisingly soft.

‘It was very late for a seven-year-old, no matter how excited. The manger had been covered with rich red and gold embroidered fabric, perhaps an altar cloth, very like a blanket; however, I was quite sure it was not in fact for my use, so I gathered up a little heap of the straw in the back of the enclosure, against the stone wall, and burrowed into it. The muffled sound of the service gradually lulled me to sleep, perfectly at home and content, vaguely conscious of the sheep silently drifting over to lie down close to me. I woke a little to the bells, and the donkey carefully snuffling around my face. He made a little hoarse hiccupping sound when I opened my eyes, and I murmured _Mac na h’Oighe slan_ , as if he had crowed; this struck me as a witty thing to do, and I reached up and stroked his muzzle, and I was as happy then as I have ever been.

‘Eventually I must have been missed, and I doubt it was very difficult for my grandmother to guess where I was. I vaguely remember being carried home, and then it was Christmas morning.’

There was a silence, neither quite knowing what music would be appropriate.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘The Christmas I was eleven – it was the last one at home, before I went to sea – was a particularly happy one. Should you like to hear about it?’

‘With all my heart.’

‘When you were talking about the civilian song,’ Jack began, ‘and the boy marching up the aisle with a sword, it made me think of the Christmas games they used to play at Queeney’s house and one Christmas when I joined in them. The opportunity arose because Queeney’s aunt was rather more lenient than her mother. My great-aunt Lettice had come to act as hostess at Woolcombe, and she and I were great friends, you know. So it was –‘

The sentry’s knock came again, and a runner from the sick berth begged the captain’s pardon and could the doctor come? Because Tommy was ever so uncomfortable and Padeen wants you, sir.

‘I shall come at once, child. Pray tell them so. Now what has Killick done with my coat? Killick! Ho, Killick!’ The steward appeared, again rather more quickly than was reasonable, Stephen’s newly-brushed coat in hand, a look of surly triumph on his face.

‘Jack, do not forget what you are about to tell me. You might consider the Veracini transcription we have been working on, in the meantime. I shall not be long.’

Having been invited, Jack sorted the Veracini scores scattered on the table into two complete and consecutive sets, placing one on the locker and the other on Stephen’s chair. He opened one of the stern windows, breathing deep, paced for several minutes, and then pulled out his desk. Taking up his letter to Sophie, he gazed into space for some time, pen in hand. He again contemplated how he could recount the morning’s remarkable service, and then what he could reasonably say about Stephen’s tale.

He had been writing for not more than ten minutes when he heard Stephen’s harsh voice in the passage, then in the coach; a few random thumps, and Stephen walked in.

‘All is well in the sick berth. Shall we consider this Veracini, now?’

.  
.  
.  
.

~•~•~•~*~•~•~•~*~•~•~•~

.  
.  
.

NOTES:

I am so sorry, these did not fit in the End Notes box, which is full of music. 

The action – if you care to call it that - occurs on the same night as ‘Ophelia’s Début’ and directly precedes it. It was meant to be one fic, but proved too ambitious for the time available. There may be more to come, too, but they are/will be completely independent; you don’t need to have read one to read and hopefully enjoy the other.

Irish: _teachín_ – cottage. Pronunciation: tee-okh-een

 _La Seu Vella_ vs. _La Seu Nova_ : The magnificent old cathedral dates back to a 9th century Islamic mosque, and was consecrated as a cathedral from the 12th century. It was co-opted to be a Spanish military citadel in 1707. The new cathedral, consecrated about 1782, is nice enough and would have impressed a naïve 7-yr-old, but I continue to imagine the truly magnificent older building, high on the hill, being a part of this story. The bells in the tower include Silvestra, the hour-bell, and Mònica, the quarter-bell.

I could not prove that ‘accidental’ to describe birds seen far from their normal range is not an anachronistic term.

Geminiani published his op 5 in Paris in 1746, so there’s no need for Stephen to have copied it. It just appeals to me as accounting for why he would know it was written in Dublin. Also, it's a very Stephenish thing to do. 

I would like to acknowledge the many wonderful fics of our heroes’ childhood, in particular those of teh_elb and josbanks, which I have tried not to contradict. However, there seems to be a prevailing opinion that Stephen's youth was packed with suffering and rejection, which I can’t quite accept. In canon we know he was idealistic, enthusiastic, sensitive and scarily well-educated, well-travelled and with many, many friends and acquaintances. This is not the picture of a neglected, unloved orphan. The obvious angst he suffered as a young man is quite another thing, but then he had Jack and the Royal Navy to take him in and make it all better.

In canon Stephen went to Catalunya in the middle of his eighth year. I needed it to be slightly earlier for this fic.

Stephen’s pony’s name, Oriol, means ‘golden’. It is also the name of the Barcelona-born St. Joseph Oriol, 1650-1702. He was a priest credited with a many instances of miraculous healing, beatified in 1806, canonised in 1909. I have a lot of fun with this kind of thing.

**Author's Note:**

> The music:
> 
> (Some of these reprise, e.g. #s 13 & 15.)
> 
> *1: Francesco Geminiani (1687-1762), Cello Sonata in C major, Op. 5 no. 3, H. 105. Just one of the allegros (both are charming). Allegro II = 4:17, IV = 3:35. This is the so-called Irish music.
> 
> *2: The Wexford Carol. Traditional and Irish, just as Stephen says. I imagine he would pluck the melody rather than bowing, as it’s Mixolydian mode. (If a musician reads this, please comment.)
> 
> *3: Giuseppe Tartini (1692-1770): Violin Sonata in A major, Op.1 no. 1 (9:40)
> 
> *4: Carolan’s Farewell (4:07) and Hard Is My Fate (3:01). “Carolan’s Farewell” was written by the great blind harper Turlough O'Carolan (1670-1738), Toirdhealbhach Ó Cearbhalláin in Irish. He spent most of his life in the counties Roscommon and Leith. (Aghamore, Bridie Coolan’s home, is in County Leith.) Carolan died March 25, 1738; Stephen’s canonical birthday, 34 years before the year that Patrick O’Brian guessed was the most probable for Stephen’s birth. More fun! ‘Hard is My Fate’ is traditional (Scottish, actually), and is the song Bridie sang in this passage.
> 
> *5: William Marshall (1748-1833): Chapel Keithack
> 
> *6: Curoo, Curoo, also called Carol of the Birds: I believe it is Irish and may date back to the 18th century, but another source puts it as mid-19th century. I could not find the Irish lyrics.
> 
> *7: Thomas Phillips (1735 -1807): While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night: Words by Nahum Tate (1652 - 1715). See #9.
> 
> *8: Here we come a-wassailing. Traditional English (17th C.)
> 
> *9: Christopher Tye (c.1500-1573): While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night: Words by Nahum Tate (1652 - 1715), arranged by Richard Alison (fl.1592-1606). This and #7 are two of the many melodies associated with the words; there’s another one, by John Foster (1762-1822), in my 2013 Advent fic, In Dulci Jubilo.
> 
> *10: The Coventry Carol. English traditional, 16th C. or earlier.
> 
> *11: The Holly and the Ivy. English traditional, 18th C. or earlier.
> 
> *12: The Birds, traditional (Deller Consort 1960)
> 
> *13: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791): Aria ‘Torna mio bene, ascolta’ from _Ascanio in Alba_ , A2sc5. This opera premiered in 1771, when Jack (by best guess) was one year old.
> 
> *14: Angels we have heard on high / Les anges dans nos compagnes. This is an anachronism in this form, but the melody is traditional and genuinely from the Languedoc region.
> 
> *15: Hodie Nobis Caelorum Rex, Gregorian, anonymous (1:48) (from album Scintillate, amicæ stellæ: Christmas in the Convents of 16th and 17th Century Italy)
> 
> *16: Juan Arañés (d.c.1649): Chacona: A La Vida Bona (villancico)
> 
> *17: Sardana
> 
> *18: Joan Cererols (1618-1676): Serafín Que Con Dulce
> 
> *19: Francisco de Vidales (c1630-1702): Los que fueren de buen gusto (villancico)
> 
> *20: Sibil·La Catalana: The Catalan version is on Jordi Savall’s El Cant de la Sibil·La: Catalunya. (23:11) [here](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5p40pPd-UPc&autoplay=1)
> 
> *21: Georg Philipp Telemann (1681-1767): Hirtenlied (instrumental intro only), from Die Hirten an der Krippe zu Bethlehem.
> 
> *22: Francesco Maria Veracini (1690-1768): Violin Sonata #6 in A (20 m)


End file.
